


9 to 5

by crodansprite



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Complicated Relationships, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, could be considered a love triangle, theyre all poc js, unrequited crushes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crodansprite/pseuds/crodansprite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes down to Houston for a week in July. With poorly overlapping sleep schedules and awkward confrontations, is a week enough time to make a move for any of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> im editting this bs to fit my new headcanons after letting this fic collect dust for eighty four years.... and i have a love/hate relationship w writing so dont expect frequent updates if u dig this fic (but!! i will try my best if ppl comment and say they want more!) so yes enjoy my twisted mind (:

Ninety five degrees Fahrenheit. That's thirty five degrees Celsius. You just looked up what it would be in Celsius. Yeah, you're a big math nerd, starting your fall semester as a mathematics major this year, but you don't care enough to commit the conversion formula to memory. You've never been outside of the US in your life, so, to you, that just seems unnecessary and kinda boring. And you’re not that into science. Anyway.

That's how hot it is. Terribly hot. So hot, you're melting. All your insides are the consistency of scrambled eggs, probably. This apartment is a microwave and you're getting cooked from the inside out. Of course, that's not how it actually works, but does that really matter? You're dying. All of the water in your body has evaporated. You're John jerky. A prune of a man. Just looking at the other guys makes you sweat about five more gallons.

Dave's in a freaking sweatshirt, for one. Sweatshirt and basketball shorts. Says heat like this is normal. Acts like this inferno is just another day at home. The air conditioner broke, he explained, when you first stepped into the Strider suite.

Bro is better, but worse. He's in a wifebeater and cargo shorts. He's the logical one, saying that it's "like a fuckin' at-home sauna in this hoe," then tips his head back against the back of the futon and groans. You learn that he was originally from New York. Sweat covers his body and plasters his hair to his neck and forehead. It's a nice sight to see. After all these years in Houston, he can't handle the heat. He didn't grow up in the heat like Dave did.

They both know that you have never, ever felt heat like this. And they laugh as you lay on the floor in your skimpiest briefs, all three fans they owned blowing on your burning body. You've been here during winter break, but it's summer, and you regret ever bringing up the idea of visiting him.

"Hey," you look over at Dave, seeing a fuzz of tan and fire since even your glasses were too hot to wear. They lay next to your phone on the floor. "Doesn't your building have a pool or something?"

"Psh, nah dude, you're shit outta luck." Dave gives you his cockiest snort laugh just to rub it in further.

Bro chimes in with his half assed grunt of a laugh and says, "Inflatable kiddy pool is all we got. 'Course, you'd hafta share, an' you gotta carry the water an' pool up to the roof, an' blow the thing up. Jus' too much work for a tiny ass pool."

You tilt your head back to look at Bro, with you on his right on the floor and Dave on his left perched on the coffee table. Though his hat has been thrown somewhere else a long time ago, he still has his shades on. The fuzzy black triangles on light olive skin was blocking the amber you know hide behind the tinted glass. What a secretive prick.

"I don't want to lay out in the sun. I'll get all ashy, and that's annoying." You sigh as you roll onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow. It was bad enough that the early afternoon sun was peeking in through the window, but you made Dave sit in the patch of sun.

"We have lotion that smells like the Abercrombie model guys. So masculine you can almost feel the sexist kitchen jokes." Dave's quick huff of laughter is much more genuine and makes his whole body jolt to the side. "Works well when I want that beautiful caramel glow but still keep my look game strong."

"Beautiful caramel glow," Bro jeers, scoffing softly. "God, you jus' sounded so fuckin' stupid."

"You're just jealous of my radiant complexion. Try drinking some water the next time you get the munchies." That earns Dave a pillow to the face, knocking him off the coffee table and onto his back. You bust out laughing and Dave scrambles to get up and throw the pillow back at his brother. It misses by a foot.

"Thought I told you to keep that shit lowkey. Don't need Johnny here tellin' his old man. Then y'all won't be able to see each other."

"Oh, no!" You sit up, letting the last of your giggles die down. "Dad's totally pro-legalization. He knows that marijuana will help our country's economy."

"See? We gotta good man on our side. Maybe Congress will take his serious dad advice very seriously and legalize recreational weed. Just need persistence. That's how prohibition was broken, probably." Dave stands up and shuffles his way into the kitchen. All you hear is clangs of metal and a soft string of curses.

"I guess, but there's a different between somethin' deadly an' a plant. Buncha ol' white men ain't gonna legalize a plant. Sure, they'll let people get drunk an' kill their liver for the hell of it, or drive an' get into deadly accidents an' shit, but nah. Won't let a tax payin' citizen like me smoke a goddamn jay. You two," he gestures towards you and back at Dave, "needta run for office."

"Why not you, Bro? You're old and wise." Dave returns with three bottles of water, tossing one to Bro and one to you. The bottle hits your chest before landing in your lap, Bro catches it in one hand without even looking at it. He's so cool.

Surprisingly, Dave was the figurative caretaker of his family, keeping him and his brother in good health by making shitty smoothies and protein shakes, making sure they never missed a round of strifing for too long, and playing doctor when they got injured. After years of online messaging, you know that his skill in stitching up wounds sparked an interest in taxidermy, and eventually other methods of preserving dead things. He ironically called himself quirky. You found it slightly concerning.

"'Cause, we need another black man in office. And a trans guy would be great, too."

You pause the sip you were taking and actually consider running for president. You look up and see that Dave was wearing his thinking cap, too. Your eyes met in silent conversation.

"Nah." You both speak and shrug in unison.

"Even though being president would be great, I think my future as a math teacher will be way more fun,” you muse.

"No one would vote a Latino into office, especially a trans one. And who said you get to be president? Maybe I wanna be the next Barack, the next history making first." Dave returns to his spot in the slowly descending sun.

"We can switch after one term, dude. And you get to be two firsts! Hypothetically, I'd let you be president first. Then we're switching."

"Three if you count his biological sex." Bro looks between you and Dave, cracking open the cap of his water.

"Ha, suck my dick, Obama. First Mexican, first trans, and first vagina having person as president. I'm a fucking historical package." Dave does a little dance, pulling a chuckle from the other two men.

"He can't suck your dick when you just said you have a vagina."

"He can suck my vag, then ."

"Okay, yeah, but we're still eighteen. We have another ten years until we can run? I think the minimum age is twenty eight years old."

"We're not even doing it, why does it matter."

"I'm just saying! It would be kinda cool to do!"

"Kinda cool to lead a country. That's totes a reason to run for office."

"Don't totes me, dickwad, it's not cool."

"Aw hell no, you're just asking for me to start throwing hands righ-"

"Aight, shut up, the both of you." Bro gives Dave a look of disappointment as he was in a mid-crawl position on the coffee table, stopped on his way over to tackle you. You're thankful; Dave was all muscle in his long legs, making it easy for him to pounce on you and get you down. Even with your years of wrestling, you haven't won against him. That's why you switched to football (or as he calls it, fake football) in freshman year.

The look you get from Bro is different. It's amused, and it dawns on you that he just totally stopped you from wrestling your best friend in your underwear. You make a note to thank him later as Dave sulks back to his spot and all three of you nurse on your water bottles to fight off dehydration.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s 9:55 pm. Your smuppet clock tells you that. The television is muted, Chopped contestants silently describe what they made today for the judges, looking vaguely worried. Dave's blasting Kendrick Lamar’s new album “untitled unmastered.” his room with John and trying to find a comfortable volume to drown it out is a waste of your time.

Leftover pizza crusts still lay on chipped dinner plates, set in their respective places on the coffee table. Now would be a great time to clean up the mess if it wasn't too early. You only like cleaning in the middle of the night. It's better, personally, not having Dave underfoot as you dust and pick up around the main room and do dishes. No one does laundry at midnight but you, so you're free to leave your clothes alone to clean the kitchen and bathroom. The only cleaning you do during the day is vacuuming because you're not that big of a dick. Cleaning tires you out enough to make you pass out at two in the morning, letting the apartment settle for an hour until Dave's up and about to do his thing.

You and Dave have been doing this since he started high school. The silent agreement of staying out of each other's way was law, always has been. Sure, you bug and annoy and pester about grades, but any complaints that have been voiced are passive and meaningless. You had a brotherly telepathy that kept you on the same page. You took care of the home and payed the bills, he took care of himself and you. Everything else was evenly distributed between you two.

John's still baffled by the fifteen years separating you and your brother. It's not a big deal, you say. I know! he says, but it's still surprising. Then he goes on to tell Dave that he looks old for eighteen and tell you that you look young for thirty three. You tell him to hush up. That was eleven hours ago. Dave and you picked him up at 11 am. It's the third time he's been down in Houston, first time being spring break two years ago.

He still looks up at you with that awe-struck expression when he comes in for a fist bump. Just bordering on admiration. That look scares you. Terrifies you, actually. You see that look too often, because that's the same look Dave gives John, during every visit and Skype call and Snapchat conversatio .

It's more like looking down in wonder in his case, since Dave is at least a head taller than John. You still remember the first time John came down to Houston. "Holy shit," you heard Dave whisper as John half walked, half sprinted towards you two in the airport, a huge smile on his face that would stay the rest of the day. "He's so short and thick and cute." But it's still nothing short of loving.

You've known Dave for all eighteen years he's been alive. You've lived with him in Texas for fourteen of those years. He was too young to remember New York. That's how you wanted to keep it and he knew that.

You took custody of him when he was four, you were nineteen at the time, using up all of your college savings to move down South and buy a tiny ass apartment. You got a job, a babysitter for Dave, and a car. Your neighbor, a sweet Mexican lady who taught Dave some Spanish and helped him with his English, watched Dave at night while you worked. You had a decent welding job, great pay considering you were only a highschool graduate. But your skill was exceptional and payed for a bigger, better apartment two years later. You still hang out with the women and men that lent you money when the first of the month rolled around and asked for nothing but your best work in return.

You groan as you stand up. Taking a second to stretch, you shuffle over to the kitchen, moving silently even if you're groggy and in need for a cup of coffee. Coffee sounds good right now. So does a shower. You glance at the microwave. The clock reads 10:15. Just spent twenty minutes of your time doing jack shit. Good job being an adult, you think.

You'll wait a bit before hopping in the shower, though. A song from “To Pimp A Butterfly” comes down the hallway. They're still listening to Kendrick. Classic Dave, you thought, he probably tweets Kendrick good morning everyday. You bitch about Dave loving Kendrick more than he loves you. He agrees.

You make a beeline to the coffee maker. The pot is half full, like always. You have your favorite "#1 HOE" mug next to Dave's "Lefthanders do it backwards." mug on the counter. You fill up your mug and drink the coffee black. Dave likes his with milk and sugar, three shots of caramel when he gets Starbucks.

The kid has a pretty bad sweet tooth, evident by a few cavities, but you've got the sweet tooth the size of Texas. Dave yells at you when you bring home big bags of Twix, stomps around and calls you gordo, but it's ignored. He's always teasing. That's his role. To be the mommy and take care of your stupid ass. It's all tough love, but it's better than nothing, you suppose.

Leaning back against the counter, a small sigh is the only sound you're making as you sip the cold coffee in your hand. Shouts of protest come from Dave's room. The music cuts off abruptly, damn, you liked that song. His door opens and quick footsteps come down the hall. You know it's Dave even before you see his bright eyes.

"Yo. Train to Sleep Town is pullin' out the station, you need anything before we leave? John is trying to act like he’s not exhausted.” Dave's got his usual sweatpants and one of your old work shirts on as pajamas. John must've braided his hair back, his undercut dark compared to the dyed red to orange to yellow obre of the rest of his hair. The long sideburn-esque hair on the sides of his face match the hair on top of his head, and they both have a line of dark regrowth. You like the way he wears it, the way he stunts his stuff when people give him strange looks, the way he looks overall.

"S'all good here. G'night, sugar, te amo." You offer a small nod, he returns it and escapes back to his room.

You hate it when he stays silent like that and he knows. But you know why and you've never blamed him for doing it. It's your fault, you know, and the first step is to accept that you're doing something wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

Fuck your life. Fuck it with a red hot metal rod, smell the burning agony, make a perfume out of it as a constant reminder of every mistake you've made leading up to this very moment. This bed is your grave. In the wise words of Weezy, you are truly six feet deep, your dick a shovel in the dirt. RIP David Strider. But, unfortunately, you are not resting in pussy, nor are you resting at all.

Rather, you're conscious, tied in a human knot with Egbert, nearly impossible to escape without waking the beast up. Your tiny bladder can't handle his hundred pound thigh weighing down on it. So you're trying your best to wiggle around, hopefully dislodging the hibernating bear long enough for you to make your escape. And you got asked last minute to come into work at 9 this morning. Luckily, it’s only a five hour shift, but it’s five hours away from Sleeping Beauty here.

But, despite your discomfort and the lack of motivation looming over you, in a way you're enjoying it. John grinds his teeth in his sleep and you gently rub his jaw to hopefully make him stop. He does, humming softly in sleepy response. What a cutie.

John actually suggested to sleep with you in your little twin bed, saying he was so tired he couldn't be bothered by the heat, and you weren't about to pass up on a chance to cuddle up with him, sweat and loud snoring be damned. Besides, the heat really did not phase you in the slightest, but that didn't stop your best friend from asking you every time he looked at you. He also smiled, because you knew he liked how your hair looked. The fire ombre really was your style, he'd say, reminding you that it matches your fire bars, and Bro would always be in earshot to laugh at that. And, like a cactus in the middle of the desert, you'd drink up every little compliment like you weren't expecting another rainfall for the next ten years. Every moment played on repeat as you laid in bed, John's body right up against yours as he snoozed last night, you waiting for your brain to decide it was tired and sleep, since you were so wired from caffeine to keep up with John and his body’s clock. You got to savor the gap between his bedtime and yours by nuzzling his hair and gently rubbing his arm, even tangling your legs together, his short and thick ones next to your long twig legs. 

But you regret sleeping like that, because now you're starting to get a little frantic, not used to being so confined in one spot. It was your enhanced fight-or-flight instinct, something you didn't think would kick in while you cuddled up to this sweet thang, but apparently you're always on guard. And you only have one person to thank.

Bro is funny, in a bad way. Usually you're the one instigating all the strifes because he really couldn't care less if the two of you strifed, but it's good exercise for the both of you so you make him participate. And it's not like he comes out of nowhere, trying to attack you. He just comes out of nowhere. You turn a corner and bam, he's there. And usually there's no exchange between the two of you; unspoken law and everything. But sometimes when you try to duck out of the way, he'll grab your arm and just look at you. Won't say a word, just stand there and stare. In the past you've fought to break free. Now, you just stand there and don't say a word. You know what he's doing. Besides being weird, he's getting his chance to slow down and fully acknowledge you, like some odd grounding technique. Look at you like you're his greatest achievement, full of love and adoration, like he created you, owned you. He's peculiar like that. And once he's got his fill, he'll carry on with whatever he was doing, leaving you alone for awhile, even go for a day or two without speaking to you. Now that you're out of high school, you've been taking extra shifts at work just to avoid that shit. You hate the feeling his looks give you. It's a big cocktail of dread and uneasiness and nausea. But you can't just avoid your big brother. When he drinks too much, he reminds you of everything he's done for you. Of how much he loves you, how sad he'll be to see you go off to college and start your own life somewhere else. It's not a guilt trip, despite how much much Rose insists that it is. It's just Bro being Bro.

“N... No salsa dancin’ for me...?” A muffled yet worried voice asks next to you. John’s face is twisted in a grimace, buried into your chest, and you chuckle.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I've saved this dance for another,” you whisper, gently lifting his arm off of your side. “Can you let me go now?” 

With an angry grunt, John sleepily obeys and lets go just long enough for you to slip out of his hold and tap in your pillow for a round of sleep wrestling with the heavyweight champ himself.

You practically sprint to the bathroom, dropping your boxers to relieve yourself, a long sigh escaping you through your nose. And, since you were there, and your bathroom is the size of a fucking closet, you were able to reach over and grab your toothbrush and toothpaste, cinnamon flavored, to brush your teeth. After that, you jump into the shower, only having to take off your boxers and tank top before stepping into the hot water. You weren't washing your hair, so you were allowed to enjoy the steam, washing your body slowly, tediously. You enjoyed the alone time. You need alone time. To recharge your batteries.

But it wasn't like you didn't like John. You love John. Idolized him, held him up in the air, making him a pedestal without him even knowing. More times than you'd like to admit, you've ended up with your hand in your pants when you text him. You've never admitted your little (okay, not that little, John is your whole life) crush to him, only to Rose, Jade and Bro had figured out on their own. But John was adorably clueless. To him, cuddling was platonic,  
a friendship building thing. But to you, it's great. You can feel the closeness you crave, pretending like you're a thing, and you've even snuck in a quick peck on the forehead a couple times. His hair smelled like strawberries and cream but his aftershave smelled like what a sunset in the woods feels like. It was quiet, comforting, warm, not too dark yet not too light. You loved it. You loved him. 

But, soon enough, the water was running cold because someone else in the building decided to flush their toilet at four in the morning, so you dragged yourself out of the shower to continue your morning routine.

You make the short trip out to the living room where, alas, a basket of clean clothes are waiting for you, everything folded perfectly. There's no remorse in your actions as you rummage through the piles to get a new pair of boxers, tugging them on. Then you grab the freshly cleaned binder hanging on una percha on the back of the futon. The only reason why you're parading around the apartment half naked is because Bro is passed the fuck out on the futon, a polo laying across his chest. How sweet of him to fold your clothes first, then pass out while folding his own. You grab your clean Uno’s uniform and gently pat his head. Rarely do you express it, but you really, truly appreciate all he does for you. The apartment is always clean unless your manchild of a brother is sick. That's when you step in and pick up the slack, taking care of laundry and groceries and basic house keeping. 

The rest of the morning is spent in the bathroom, changing and spending forever getting your hair in order. All to just hide most of it under a hat. But it's still worth it to have your hair look semi-good when your shift is over and you can finally lose the hat. You're usually not a very outgoing person outside of the apartment, but your hair is your silent statement, sticking out like a sore thumb in a crowd, saying, “I'm here, I'm queer, and my life is partially in shambles.” You appreciate that.

With one last check of your teeth, you don your work hat and head out to the kitchen to start cooking breakfast. It's around seven now, the microwave tells you, and you hear the coffee maker brewing its usual seven o'clock pot. Stopping it momentarily, you pour a healthy serving into your designated mug, grabbing the milk from the fridge after a quick fight with cold blades, put splash in the mug, and follow up with some sugar. A quick stir and you're sipping noisily at the steaming liquid. That'll wake you up, if being up for about four hours didn't do the trick. 

Elton John is playing softly over the speakers around the kitchen and living room, Bro’s phone resting on the counter next to you, connected via Bluetooth. You pick it up, press the home button to turn the screen on. The background is a picture from Christmas, he was Santa for the company holiday party and you were sitting on his lap, looking absolutely miserable in your ugly sweater. It had smuppets on it, Bro was just beginning to make it in the smuppet erotica business, and, like always, you were a cute, walking billboard. But you still like how it's his lockscreen. You turn up the music a little bit and put his phone back in its place, plugging the charger in because he forgot to do so last night, obviously. 

Eight thirty rolls around and you're grabbing your phone, wallet and keys from your room. Surprisingly, you're the only one up right now, but you're positive they'll be up soon as soon as John gets hungry. After kissing both boys on the head, you duck out of the apartment, heading out to work.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning starts off with your phone vibrating, the “Yee” Benedict Cumberbatch-looking dinosaur-thingy music playing along with it. That's Dave's text tone, you think, as you start to sit up, a few joints popping in the process. Your eyes open slowly as you pat the bed around you. Huh, he's not here. A quick double tap on your phone that sits on the desk next to Dave’s bed (though it’s hardly a bed, just two mattresses sitting on the floor) tells you that it’s 9:25 AM, and Dave texted you good morning from work. That was sweet. 

Your bladder reminds you that you drank way too much Kool Aid last night, so you get up, grab Dave's slippers (that don't fit your feet) and his robe (also doesn't fit you), and shuffle your way out to the bathroom. A bright light shines from the cracked open door, and you hear music, and what sounds like teeth brushing. Reaching forward to knock, the door opens a little bit more, Bro’s head appearing so suddenly it startles you the tiniest bit. He notices and huffs a laugh.

“Yessir?” He drawls, which is surprising, because he never drawls like that. You clear your throat to respond.

“Sorry to, uh, intrude, but I have to pee. But it can wait if you're busy!” Your hands naturally speak with you, holding them open-palmed towards Bro as to say, “Hey, sorry if I'm being rude, I know this is your home and all, please don't hate me.”

Bro looks you up and down before the bathroom door opens fully. He's just in his boxers (swoon) and you can see the small bit of definition in his abdomen, which you know is all muscle (double swoon) and he's still got his toothbrush in hand as he sneaks by you on your right, adding, “Yeah, all yours.”

Your stomach becomes an acrobat in your torso as your arms ever so slightly touch, but you contain yourself until you're safe behind the bathroom door. You freak while you pee. You freak when you wash your hands, when you brush your teeth. You’re still freaking when you’re fixing your hair. Bro is home alone with you. That is awesome!!! You get to hang out with Bro, in the flesh. That never happens when you visit Dave! Bro is your role model, kind of. Like, yeah, he’s cool and hot and charming, but he’s also Bro, so. There are parts of him that aren’t so admirable. Like the fact that he likes to burp in your face sometimes, and when you pass out in the living room, make your sleeping form pose with Lil’ Cal, sending the pictures he took of you after you’re back home. You never fail to call him and yell at him, if he can ever hear you over his laughter. And when you stop talking to let him calm down, he hangs up on you! He’s a fun guy, but he’s still a douche.

After your morning routine took longer than it usually did because of your freaking out, you strut your stuff out of the bathroom and into the main room, and... Bro isn’t there? You glance at the futon, in the kitchen and he’s just not there. You could have sworn you saw him head this way when he left the bathroom. Wait, no, he went to the right, down the hall. Not the left. Damnit.

Trying to pick your feet up high enough so your (Dave’s) slippers don’t scrape against the hardwood floor of the living room, then the checkerboard tiles of the kitchen, you go about putting a plate of breakfast together. Dave cooked up bacon, scrambled eggs, and french toast, all staying warm under pot covers of varying sizes. You’ll have to text him and say thank you after you eat, but right now your first priority is to pile as much food as your stomach can handle onto your plate. Food goes quick in this apartment, you know, so it’s best to eat a lot now and be full for a while, than to eat a little and risk being hungry later. As you’re covering everything on your plate with maple syrup, you feel something brush against your back, making you jump again.

“Jesus, kid, could ya get any jumpier?” Bro snickers as he refills his coffee mug. You breathe out slowly, hand clutching your chest.

“Hoo boy,” you break out in a breathy laugh as you turn to look up at him. “I think I would have peed my pants if I didn't pee earlier.”

“Dave would kill ya if he found any of your piss in his favorite slippers. But a picture of ya wearin’ his shit like a desperate one night stand trynna be more would cheer him up easy.”

Your eyes follow him as he walks over to the futon after stealing a piece of your bacon, your brow arched curiously. But you don't question him, you just pick up your plate, grabbing a fork from the drawer on the way over, and sit down next to him on the futon. 

The Food Network is on, not much of a surprise considering that you're in the Strider apartment right now, and the curtain in front of the window is open, as well as the window itself, and you can hear the city even from the top floor. It's faint, but there. You think later you'll go up to the roof and hang out later, maybe borrow Dave’s Bluetooth speaker and listen to music. 

The city of Houston is comforting to you, especially up in the apartment, because it's so much more pleasing than your white neighborhood on the outskirts of Seattle. You get to be somewhere busy, where things move fast and rarely stop. The height of almost every building around you is bizarre, in the best way, and standing up on the roof of the apartment building takes your breath away almost every time. It's like you can jump and start flying with the rest of the birds that inhabit the sky. The best dreams you have are of you flying. You got your favorite birthday present not too long ago, on your eighteenth birthday, when you went skydiving with your dad. You dreamed about the feeling of flight every night for a month afterwards. It’s like magic, being able to glide through the air so easily, you smiled the whole way down from the plane and a long time afterwards. Flying in planes is fun, too, but you like the feeling of the air rushing past you a lot more than sitting in a big machine that's doing the flying for you. The view from the plane window still is breathtaking, and you can day dream about flying all you want.

As you continue to stare out the window and think, a finger pokes your thigh, and you shake yourself out of your thoughts to blink over at Bro. Even with his shades on, you lock eyes with him.

“Said good mornin’ to ya fifteen million times, bub. Get your head out of the clouds,” he follows up with rubbing your hair, an unreadable look on his face. You think it's amusement, but like always, he's impossible to read. 

“Heh,” you smile sheepishly and start stabbing eggs onto your fork. “Sorry. I'm off in la-la-land. Good morning, Mr. Bro.”

His groan at the nickname makes you smile wider, loving how he throws you that “Ya fuckin’ dipshit” look. He hates honorifics. He even gave you a good smack on the back of the head when you first called him Mr. Strider (because your father said you should, since a) manners are apparently super important in the south, and b) Bro isn't a very “proper” name to call someone you don't know that well). Now, having learned your lesson, you just use it to annoy him.

The next hour is spent in silence, you chowing down on your maple syrup-soaked breakfast with the occasional disgusted comment from Bro, saying how “That sure as hell can't be healthy,” and “Does your daddy know you eat like that?”. You say you don't eat like this often, it's usually when you're visiting Dave that you do, and your dad doesn't really know, so you make Bro promise he won't tell. He reluctantly agrees, saying that it's your fault you're gonna get diabetes. The rest is silence, Guy Fieri and mid morning traffic talking for the two of you. When your food is finished, you get up to rinse your plate like the polite houseguest you are, and return to your spot on the futon. 

“Hey, Bro?” You turn to talk to him, but his spot is empty. The roll of your eyes can't be prevented, and it's not like you tried to stop it, anyways. He just pulled a classic Bro move and ollied outie without you even noticing. You can't figure out why, or how, but the hideous smuppet clock’s hour hand is pointing to eight, and you ate enough french toast to feed the entire population of France, so you flop down on your side to drown out Guy and just listen to the traffic.


	5. Chapter 5

The only reason why you got your ass out of there and escaped to your room when you got the chance was because you know John’s just there to ogle at you, most likely thinking, “Oh wow! He’s so big and strong and handsome!” And you are so not about that. It’s bad enough you deal with it everywhere you go. Ladies of all ages fan themselves a little faster when you walk by, groups of girls whisper and giggle at the sight of you, and some guys wrap a protective arm around their partner when they see you. Others either eye you up or push their chest out to try to intimidate you, or to match your size. And honestly, you’re not about that, either. You hate being marveled at, especially since you hate when all eyes are on you. That’s why you rarely speak up, never put yourself in the spotlight, keep your brightly colored hats at home. You really only wear your obnoxious shades to embarrass Dave when the two of you go out in public, so people looked at him when he got all flustered and pissy. You know he couldn't give less of a shit about what you wear, but he's a lifesaver, so of course he'd step in to save your anxiety-ridden ass.

Dave's gotten used to your little quirks, better than anyone else has, including past partners and your parents. He's been your rock for the past forever. You could say that you're codependent on him, like he is to you, the both of you needing the equilibrium each other bring to the other's life. You've had the big college talk with Dave countless times before. You know he wants to go to USC for Cinematic Arts. It's his dream; you couldn't bring yourself to crush it even if you wanted to. But you know he couldn't handle being away from you only because he's so used to taking care of your stupid ass, he'd be lost by himself. And even though he's USC ready, he wouldn't do well with the homework aspect of university.

And you wouldn't do well of the Dave-less aspect of it. Your life has revolved around his life for his whole life. He's always listened to, always supported, always comforted you. You've never been one to seek out help during your mental breakdowns, especially when you're out and about, but Dave wordlessly comes to your rescue, dragging your ass out of whatever pit your brain dug you into this time. He can sense your mood effortlessly. It’s like this sixth sense he has, the both of you often joke about, albeit it’s a rather serious topic between you two, how he just knows to come home at two in the morning and hold you. You’re a wreck, yes, but you’d be a goner without Dave.

So you do your best to keep Egbert at arm’s distance from you at all times, preventing him from doing anything stupid because you know Dave would be so, so disappointed in you for not having the guts to say no to that little devil. Then you’d lose your aforementioned guts, as well as your head and your ass to his bear of a father. 

That man makes the least amount of sense you to, and you like to consider yourself well versed when it comes to people. He let his son go across the ocean for a Boy Scouts trip, lets him go to national parks all over the country, and trusts him enough to let him hang with Jade, some random child from a Pacific island that had foreign germs and shit. Not that you have any beef with Jade, she's your girl. It’s just absurd that he trusts John so much, but he won’t let him hang out at the apartment without texting him every other waking hour. And if John, the clumsy kid, comes home with so much of a scratch, you get an angry phone call from Papa Bear. And you hate angry phone calls. You have to dress the kid up in heavy armor so he won’t accidentally brush up against a sword that’s sitting on the coffee table and scratch his leg, and you get an earful of how your home isn’t safe for John or Dave, and how Dave should go live up with the Egberts because you’re incompetent when it comes to parenting. When, really, parenting wasn’t even a thing when you were a kid. It was just having kids. Something drastically different.

The way you were raised, you were taught all the basic life skills you needed to know until you were twelve, and from then on, you were allowed to go off and do what you wanted as long as you were home before the sun set. You learned everything else from trial and error, with minimal input from any adults. And you’re alright. You run a successful business making videos. You can manage money well, and you can make good investments.

For the most part, you’re good at looking after Dave, making sure Dave had food to eat, even if it wasn’t always readily available in the kitchen, because he knew where the food money envelope was. And you knew Dave had clothes to wear because he wore basically the same thing you did when you were his age (band tees and jeans), so he’d go through all your old stuff and keeped what suited his style, which was all of it since his taste included old band tees and faded jeans. The only thing you really had to buy for him was shoes, jackets, backpacks and other various accessories. And he’s a thrift store junky, so it’s not like he ever costed you a fortune. Because you raised him not to take money for granted, and to be conscious of the cost of things so he isn’t some stupid little spoiled prick when he was older, he knew a good deal and didn’t mind dealing with the thrift store smell when it came to cool jean jackets, or old Nikes, or a new bag for school. And with your mediocre sewing skills, you can hem pants that are too long on him, add patches to various articles of clothing, and fix broken zippers or missing buttons. Pullover hoodies could become zip up hoodies if he wished it so, favorite shirts were repaired if they were cut, broken watches could be fixed if they hadn’t worked for years. You were his fashion guru. It worked well.

And Dave was strong. Whether it be mentally or physically, he has no problem sticking up for himself, others, and his beliefs. He’s good about helping people who can’t stand up for themselves, even against the most bigoted people in Texas, which you’re always happy to hear about when he comes home, sometimes with bloody noses and black eyes. You’re proud of him, the way he’s grown, what he’s done. He’s so “punk rock”, as he puts it. He does his own thing. Wears what he wants and does what he wants. He’s wonderful, and you love him, cocky attitude and all. 

You’re laying in bed now, staring up at the ceiling, sprawled out. You hate being locked up in your room when you don’t have to be. But John has cornered you into this room. And you hate him, not enough to prevent him from hanging out with Dave, but at least a little bit. His shrill voice and grating laugh can’t be missed, mostly because your ears are so in tune with familiar voices. But even then, his stands out like a sore thumb in your head, demands for your attention with its bratty tone, commands you to concentrate on every word. Like, yeah, he’s tolerable to be around, sometimes the two of you can hold intelligent conversations, but you quickly run out of energy when you talk to him. Your energies just clash too much to really chill with him.

Enough of that dwelling, though, you can do something productive with your time rather than lay there and think about Dave and John. You move to grab your laptop from the side table and open it up, continuing to read the digital version of the DSM from where you last left off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi,, sorry i havent updated in like 2 months, school beated me down and made me its bitch, and i really havent been super motivated. the only thing that really got me to write was tbf lmao. but yes. this is my bullshit chapter. im always a slut for exposition


End file.
